An Evening Photograph
by Darkflame's Pyre
Summary: A snapshot of a New-York evening. Prompted by a line from my fic 'Dangerous Boys', but this is an AU, stand-alone fic -you'll know right away. In no way connected to anything I have written up until this point. Please enjoy! Xx


**A/N: Okay. This is a completely random one-shot, totally unrelated to anything I have written before but for one, tiny link, and I think that if you have read 'Dangerous Boys', you are going to understand why pretty darn quick. It was prompted by a line in there, and I'm quite proud of it. You do not need to have read that one to understand this; it's just my plot bunnies of Tracy-ness deciding to play up on me again. Determined will be up tomorrow night, RVFan — don't you worry!**

**Enjoy! Xx**

**Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

"Gordon… stop fidgeting for Pete's sake! Just stand still for two seconds— John, can you hold him, please? Scotty? Can you fix your brother's collar… you young man; just stay st— oh, Al, don't stick your fingers…"

I groan as I watch my youngest boy wiggle a small index finger up his nose and grin widely at me through gap-growing teeth. Why in the world had I decided that a formal photo of my sons would be a good thing to send to my mother as a 'we miss you' gift? Back in Kansas while we're in New York for Virgil's entrance exam into Juilliard, she wants a picture of our country-reared boys all dressed up. But heavens, I must truly live to torture myself!

We're out for dinner at one of the nicer restaurants that Lucy recommended from when she had been a student at the school, and I'm struggling to take the dratted photo while trying to keep a ten-year old, a number of early teens, a six-year-old and a sixteen-year old from driving me insane. True, John and Scott are doing their best in their own ways to keep order, but when there were more horse-playing children than responsible older brothers, it is undoubtedly going to be difficult.

"Kent, can you please get a tissue and wipe your brother's fingers?"

"Dad! I'm not Kent, I'm Virgil!"

Craning around his oldest brother, my currently self-proclaimed older twin son gazes at me with wide eyes, trying to convey his innocence, even as Scott does exactly what I asked of him by fixing the collar of his sibling's dinner shirt. It is one of the twins' favourite tricks, and it's times like this that I hate that they are entirely identical; from the colour and style of their hair, to green-brown eyes and their taste in music. For almost twelve years now I've tried to work out why they don't like being individuals, but as of yet, I haven't been able to puzzle it out.

"Kent." I'm losing tolerance with the situation rapidly. "I've been standing here with this camera on the sidewalk for nearly fifteen minutes now, waiting for the lot of you to sort yourselves out. I really do not have the patience to wait here much longer. Stop being silly, and Virgil, if you could you do me a favour and discourage your brother from impersonating you, that would be swell…"

Kent smirks cheekily, and I sigh inwardly in exasperation. Despite the issues his heart disorder gives him, from being the smaller twin at his and Virgil's birth, my fourth son is definitely the one I can blame for Gordon's sudden spate of practical jokes. I shake my head in more than a bit of ironic amusement at the situation.

If this was the Air Force, they wouldn't look at me twice when I issue an order, but my wife adamantly refused to let me treat our home like an army camp when I broached the subject, jokingly with her a few years ago. It was with good reason, I knew. I let out a sigh. Lucy would be handling this so much better…

As if I have conjured her with a thought, my wife of eighteen years suddenly appears at my shoulder; raising fine blonde brows at our horde of rambunctious sons as she takes in the scene.

Dark-haired Scott is bent almost double as he tugs Kent's collar into place; he has shot up like a weed since the beginning of July, and is now almost taller than I am. He clearly takes after his mother's father. He is doing his best as older brother, but being a teenager, and one with his junior year beginning in three weeks, his priorities are a little more diverted to his schoolwork than running after younger brothers.

Almost-fifteen-year-old John is ready and patiently waiting, standing with his hand gripping Gordon's shoulder as the redhead jumps from foot to foot. Predictably, my first blonde son has a book in his free hand, and is reading intently while still managing to prevent his second-youngest brother from darting away. He looks tired beneath the lights spilling from the street, and I wonder if he has been staying up too late at night watching the stars again. He is so much like his mother…

The twin not getting fixed up by Scott is in comparison to Gordon standing silently and quietly, and I realise that it is no wonder that he isn't telling Kent to stuff his impersonation rubbish. He is clearly more nervous than he has been letting on, and I hope that this dinner and then the show we're going to see as a family later will be enough to calm him before tomorrow.

Alan stands with his hand in Virgil's fingers, seeming —despite his cheekiness in his current action— to be more interested in giving his brother support. The six-year-old tugs a little on his elder brother's sleeve, and I hear him very politely ask for a tissue.

Virgil blinks a little, and then smiles, cleaning his brother's grotty hand and screwing up the sticky tissue to stuff it into his pocket with little hassle.

Lucy steps forward, and I smile fondly as her curly blonde hair catches the light. Her purple wrap-around dress melds to her figure perfectly; the fine material clinging in places that don't have to do much to remind me of why we currently have so many offspring. I suddenly find that I cannot wait until all the boys are in bed.

"Boys!" Her years as a kindergarten and part-time music teacher have definitely paid off, as our six children —all barely between the ages of six and sixteen— look up. I feel instantly foolish; poised with the digital camera at the ready, as my wife manages within three seconds what I have attempted to do for the last almost quarter of an hour. "You all ready? If I'm getting hungry you've all got to be there already! One, two, three…"

She nudges me, and I take that as my cue to depress the button.

The flash goes off beneath the eaves of the theatre building the boys are standing against, and I let out an audible sigh of relief as the echo image turns out exactly as I want it to.

In the three second countdown Luce had initiated, the twins had slung an arm around each other's backs, standing in front of Scott, who in turn had rested his hand on the shoulder of the twelve-year-old I knew was Kent. John had ducked his book down behind Gordon's back and nudged Alan into a position suitable enough to ensure that he didn't look as if he were smothered by his brothers. Gordon, somehow having managed to annoy the quieter of his immediate older siblings in that few-second time-frame, ended up with Virgil's arm resting on his shoulder in the 'stay put or I'll pummel you' pose. He doesn't look as if he minded one iota.

As they all begin to chat animatedly together; rough-housing and good-natured teasing in equal measure, Lucy leans into my side as I look at the photograph. Our boys are growing up, but they are closer than ever before.

**A/N: Please let me know what you think. It's a little different, but I hope that it was enjoyable to read all the same. **

**-Pyre Xx**


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